


Out and About

by madame_faust



Series: The Jeromeverse [4]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Gen, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Christine is slightly in awe of her voice teacher - a magician (retired), who lives in a secret underground lair and acts as a full-time ghost to an opera house would naturally cultivate a remote and otherworldly image. What a surprise, then, to run into him buying bread.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: The Jeromeverse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735048
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	Out and About

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for rscoil on Tumblr who was looking for Erik and Christine as platonic besties in a Leroux-inspired work. This is, naturally, my favorite version of their relationship. This story could very easily fit into the 'Like a Postcard' or 'Un vendredi dingue' storyverse.

There was no mistaking him for he cut quite a distinctive (if not _distinguished_ ) figure: standing head and shoulders above everyone around him, deceptively broad shoulders that hid just how deathly thin he was beneath his wool coat, and of course, that incomparable voice that seemed to emanate not just from his chest, but some strange unearthly place beyond realms visible to the naked eye. 

Christine was familiar with him, of course, the infamous Opera Ghost of the Palais Garnier. She counted herself among an elite few who had encountered the ghost in the flesh and gone away unscarred, physically, or mentally, by the experience.

But perhaps she had been too hasty, or two full of herself when she formed that impression. Christine fancied she was part of an elite and secret society. Those who had been down to the handsome little house by the eerie underground lake and had sat upon the Ghost’s settee as he poured her weak tea and regaled her with stories, magic tricks, and music. 

Certainly it took away some of the shock and awe to behold that black-clad figure standing at a bakery window, long thin arms laden with packages, requesting an order of bread. 

She’d only just gone in to the boulangerie herself; ordinarily the maid went out to the shops on behalf of herself and Mamma Valerius, but she was visiting a sister who’d just had a baby and Christine took on the task herself. Mercifully Mamma made her take a list, tucked into the pocket of her walking skirt; a good thing too, the second Christine entered the shop and heard Erik politely requesting an order from the counter, she quite forgot what she was doing there herself.

Of course, she knew he had a well-stocked larder. He always had tea and coffee on hand when she found herself belowground and offered her biscuits quite solicitously, though he rarely partook of food or drink himself in her presence. It stood to reason he obtained his provisions somewhere…though being a self-professed master of conjuring tricks, a small, childish part of Christine assumed he merely snapped his fingers and thus appeared on his sideboard a little plate of almond madeleines. Evidently his powers were not so all-encompassing.

Erik had not turned when the bell tinkled behind him. The boy behind the counter did however and waved at her with a cheery, “Bonjour, mademoiselle!” and proceeded to fill a brown paper sack with the requested loaves as though there was nothing extraordinary about the situation.

Manners dictated that polite young ladies did not start lingering conversations with male acquaintances unaccompanied in public, but manners likely also dictated that young ladies did not wile their evenings away in a bachelor’s lodgings quite unaccompanied either. And so, with full awareness that her actions were bold and ill-advised, Christine strode across the shop and reached up to jab Erik quite sharply in the shoulder with one gloved finger.

“Good-morning!” she said very brightly; if the shopboy could pretend at normality, so could a conservatory-trained actress.

For a second - just a fraction of a second - Christine was sure she’d made a horrible mistake and accosted a different tall, thin man with a beautiful voice who was suffering from a bad head cold. Rather than Erik’s indifferent black mask, she instead saw a pale brow beneath the brim of the man’s black hat, a long thin nose, the rest obscured by a scarf applied over the lower half of the face. But there was no mistaking his odd golden eyes, though in the daylight they were merely eyes of light brown. Apparently the application of low lamplight was required to make them glitter with otherworldly knowledge.

Christine had never seen Erik’s mouth before, but she imagined it was fairly gaping under the scarf and this other mask - yes, she was _sure_ it was a mask. For the sharp inhale of breath implied he’d gasped, yet the scarf did not shift with the motion of his jaw, and though his eyes widened in surprise, the pale brow did not crease, nor did the delicately painted eyebrows shift a hair. A mask. A beautiful mask, but even so. 

Being that her mouth was uncovered, Christine was free to grin like a loon, for she’d not thought of anything to say to him aside from a hearty, ‘Bonjour!’ and Erik seemed equally flummoxed for he only blinked owlishly at her as if it was she who was the fantasy creature that suddenly appeared in the human world.

Even so, Christine gamely rallied and inquired, very stupidly, “You’re…ah…buying bread?”

Though Erik did not audibly laugh at her, she saw his eyes crinkle up and assumed he was doing so silently. “Yes I am. How…are you?”

It was so strange and surreal, to stand here in this sunny little shop making smalltalk like ordinary people when ordinarily their conversations were filled arguing out little points of subtlety in the rendering of the great comedies and tragedies of the stage, or swapping stories of a life lived out of a carpet bag on the road. Erik, being older than her and better traveled talked more, but she didn’t mind; in addition to being possessed of a wonderful voice to listen to, he was an engaging storyteller and brought her to tears with laughter or sympathy more than once. 

“Oh, I’m fine…” she said, their ease and chatter apparently vanished in the daylight. “How are you?”

Mercifully, the boy interrupted them; asking if monsieur needed anything else. 

“Nothing, thank you,” Erik replied, perfectly polite, if a little distracted. He paid, leaving his money on the counter without touching the boy’s hand. He glanced down at Christine. “Unless, I can…”

“No!” she interrupted, fishing around in her purse to demonstrate that she’d brought her own money - which was ridiculous, of course she had. In her scramble to demonstrate that she was not some latter day Jean Valjean she upset the contents of her bag, spilling coins on the floor. 

In a trice, Erik was kneeling beside her, gathering it all up. Their elbows knocked together and they caught eyes and the dam broke; they laughed, quite uproariously too as the shopboy stared at them, bemused. Fortunately, a young nurse accompanied by several small charges came in and absorbed his attention.

Erik rose and offered a solicitous hand to tug Christine to her feet. She let him pull her upright and smiled, a genuine smile this time, the sort she would give a friend, not a friendly ghost or a stranger. 

“It’s nice to see you,” she said, and meant it. “Out and about.”

Although his face was hidden, she was sure Erik smiled back.

“Not in my usual mortuary kingdom, you mean?” he asked, gently ironically. 

“Well, in the daytime is…different,” she admitted and Erik chuckled warmly.

“I ordinarily time my errand-running better than this,” he admitted, glancing at the children who were whispering and pointing at the ‘great tall man’ with no regard for discretion. “But needs must. I have a…guest, I am expecting and he’s as fussy a gourmand as you’d ever know; not being a native-born Parisien, he prides himself on knowing French cuisine better than the rest of us, naturally.”

A guest? A _friend_? Curiouser and curiouser. Apparently Christine had quite exaggerated her own uniqueness when it came to lakeside visits and fireside chats. 

The children were being hurried out the door by their nurse, even as they craned their necks to get a parting glance at Erik. Christine’s cheeks colored in sympathetic embarrassment, but he seemed to take no notice of them. After a lifetime of stares, she glumly supposed he would be used to it. 

“Can I help you, mademoiselle?” the shop boy asked. 

Erik inclined his head, touching his fingertips to his hat. “I’ll leave you to your shopping, my dear. It was…good to see you.”

“You as well,” Christine replied, then, feeling a little bob of her head was quite insufficient a good-bye, she extended her hand, palm down. “I’ll…see you soon?”

Erik took the cue with only a slight hesitation. He shifted his parcels and lifted her hand to the place where his mouth ought to be. Through her gloves she felt the soft wool of his scarf press her knuckles, and the firmness of the carved lips of the mask beyond that. 

“Of course,” he murmured, dropping her hand. “Under more familiar circumstances, I think. Au revoir, Christine.”

His golden brown eyes twinkled and Christine giggled. Ah yes, the familiar circumstances of an underground home with a comfortable set of armchairs, curiously locked doors, and secret passages she was forbidden to enter. All very natural. At least for two such as them. 

“Good-bye, Erik,” she smiled and he left her - not in a puff of smoke, but in a few short steps to the door of the shop, the tinkling bells accompanying him out the door. 


End file.
